Margret chuckled, amusement dancing in her eyes. "The Mayor's son. Malcolm Hayes."
My stomach twisted—not with fear, but with frustration, suspicion, and a vague unease I couldn't quite name. Just hearing his name made my shoulders tense.
I scoffed. "Since when is he my favorite customer?"
"Since he walked in looking like he was ready to murder someone and demanded to be served by only you." She raised an eyebrow, her smirk widening with clear amusement.
A sharp exhale left me. Of course he did. What the hell did he want this time?
I glanced past her toward the café entrance, my pulse ticking up despite myself. This morning, Malcolm had been cold calculation and quiet menace, almost pressing me into a wall, his words laced with something I still didn't understand. His presence had lingered with me long after he left, a weight I couldn't shake. And now, he was back? Demanding me?
Margret watched me closely, her smirk fading just slightly as if she sensed the shift in my mood. "You okay?"
I sighed, rolling my shoulders before standing. "Fine. I might as well get this over with."
She shot me a knowing look, arms crossing, but chose not to press. "Good luck. You'll need it."
Steeling myself, I stepped out into the café, scanning the elegant space until my gaze landed on him.
Malcolm sat near the window, bathed in the golden afternoon light. He looked exactly as he had this morning, impeccable. His coat was draped neatly over the chair beside him, and the sleeves of his dark shirt were rolled up just enough to expose his wrists. One hand rested on the table, fingers tapping idly against the porcelain cup in front of him.
But his face—his expression—was taut. Jaw set. A deep furrow between his brows.
He was pissed. And for some reason, he'd brought that anger here.
A prickle of irritation ran through me, but I forced my posture to stay relaxed as I made my way over. Whatever this was, I had a feeling it wouldn't be as simple as taking his order.
Malcolm was no stranger to this café; he'd been coming here often enough. But this was the first time he looked like this—like he was barely holding himself together, as if whatever storm he'd been fighting had finally spilled over.
And, apparently, I was about to be caught in its path.
I approached the table with measured steps, already regretting it. Every instinct told me to turn around and let someone else handle his mood. But I didn't. Because I knew ignoring him wouldn't make him go away until he saw me. Or maybe because, despite myself, I was curious.
I stopped beside his table, keeping my posture neutral, trying to mask the unease bubbling inside me. "You're glaring at that menu like it insulted you," I blurted before I could stop myself, wincing at my own words.
Way to go, Asher. Real smooth.
Malcolm's fingers paused mid-tap against the porcelain table, the rhythmic sound abruptly silenced. Slowly, he lifted his gaze to meet mine, his grey-blue eyes sharp and unreadable. But beneath the surface, something simmered—frustration, resentment, and a barely contained rage that had nothing to do with the untouched menu in front of him.
"Wouldn't be the worst offense I've seen today," he muttered, his voice edged with something bitter and weary, as though he had been fighting unseen battles all morning.
I ignored the implication, trying to keep my composure. "Margaret said you asked for me specifically."
Malcolm's lips curled slightly, a hint of a smirk playing at the corners. "Oh, so that's her name," he mused, drawing out the words in a way that felt more like teasing than genuine interest. He leaned back in his chair, eyes never leaving mine, studying me intently. "Maybe I just wanted decent service."
I exhaled through my nose, unimpressed. I thought he was angry? "Right. Because out of everyone here, I'm the most qualified to bring you overpriced coffee."
Oh my gods, where the hell am I getting all this confidence? Talking back to the mayor's son? What has come over me?
Something flickered in his eyes—something dangerously close to amusement—but it was gone in an instant. "Sit," he commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument.
It wasn't a request.
I blinked at him, stunned for a moment. Did he really just—?
I straightened, shaking my head to clear the haze of disbelief. "I'm at work, Mr Hayes. I can't just sit with customers."
"I know this is your break," he said smoothly, his voice laced with certainty. "And besides, I'm the mayor's son. I could order the manager to sit with me if I wanted to. So sit."
I stared at him, caught off guard. How the hell did he know when my break was? The fact that he did sent an uncomfortable prickle down my spine. Had he been paying that much attention? And if so—why?
Still, I bristled at the command, my pride warring with my curiosity. I opened my mouth to push back, but before I could, he added, "Please."
That threw me off.
Malcolm Hayes wasn't the type to ask nicely unless it benefited him. Yet, here he was, making an exception. I hesitated, feeling the weight of his gaze on me, before finally pulling out the chair opposite him. I sat down, keeping my back straight and my guard up.
"Alright," I said, folding my arms across my chest. "I'm sitting. What do you want?"
Malcolm didn't answer right away. Instead, he started looking anywhere but at me, his fingers absently tracing the edges of the menu in front of him as if gathering his thoughts. The silence stretched between us, thick with unspoken words.
Then he exhaled, long and slow, his shoulders slumping slightly. "I needed someone to talk to who isn't a brainwashed lapdog for my father."
Alarm bells immediately went off in my head, and I felt a surge of anxiety. I glanced around the café, scanning the space, my pulse kicking up a notch.
No one seemed to be paying attention to us, but I couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. Leaning in closer, I lowered my voice to a whisper. "Mr Hayes," I warned, hoping he'd understand the gravity of his words.